


are you done yet?

by petricohr



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angsty Bill Denbrough, Beverly Marsh Doesn’t Leave Derry, Bill Denbrough is a Good Friend, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Bisexual Stanley Uris, Dead Georgie Denbrough, Depression, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Established Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Everyone Loves Mike Hanlon, F/M, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Georgie Denbrough, Mike Hanlon Deserves Love, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, References to Depression, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sad Richie Tozier, Sad Stanley Uris, Sleep Deprivation, Stanley Uris Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 08:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petricohr/pseuds/petricohr
Summary: 6 times the losers club thought about suicide + the 1 time it was more than a thought.





	1. ben hanscom

**Author's Note:**

> nothing in this will be graphic, just a lil vent that came to mind while watching chapter 2. if anything mentioned affects you, please look after yourself and stop reading. kudos are appreciated, thank you for taking the time to read.

Death wasn’t something Ben Hanscom actively thought about, not by any means. However, sometimes he felt as if he was heading towards a life where he’d spend his time doing nothing _but_ thinking of death. Especially because of recent events

Now, as a poet, he admittedly has spent more than the average person thinking about it – its concept, why it happens (both planned and unplanned) and even theories that people have suggested about how to stop it. The latter always made Ben chuckle. You can’t _stop_ death. It’s inevitable. It was possibly the only thing you were guaranteed in life. Nobody was ever promised happiness, safety or love when placed on earth – only a timer counting down until their final breath; if they were one of the lucky ones who even got to breathe.

The more Ben thought about it though, were the ones who got to breathe, to live lucky? If he had been asked this question a year ago, it would’ve been a firm yes; with no room for doubt. Now, though? He wasn’t so sure. He’d say yes, of course, but the obvious hesitation would be there, and there it would stay for the future.

Which lead to another thought that frequently wormed its way into Bens head; was there even a future to look forward to? And if there was, did he _really_ want it? He wasn’t depressed or anything, a point he always aggressively insisted upon (although he hadn’t opened up to anyone about even having these thoughts so he’s not sure why he reacted the way he did to a question that nobody asked), this train of thoughts was all due to the events of that summer. The summer that stole whatever happiness adolescence hadn’t taken from so many young people, the Losers Club – Bens best friends – included.

They’d all been affected, one way or another. Ben wasn’t sure just how badly though, none of them had mentioned anything expected the nightmares which were to be expected. Ben was pretty sure he was just being dramatic, but he didn’t want to remember what had happened anymore.

It’s not like he could open up to any of the adults in his life, they all just ignore everything that happens in towns; the bullying, the disappearances, the murders, the suicides-

The suicides. There had been a fair amount of suicides over the summer – written off as murders by the unsuspecting and brainwashed adults. He always felt uncomfortable recalling them, because if It was truly dead then _why the fuck have the adults not realised?_ He didn’t want to dwell on it, not liking the thoughts that followed that. Before, Ben had also believed they were murders, but he knew more now. He knew that It, that demon, that stupid fucking clown Pennywise, had caused those suicides – ruining more lives. Before, he had thought they were selfish for doing what they did. How dare they kill themselves, hurting those around them?

Until he realised, _they weren’t selfish_. Not even one of them. They just couldn’t live with the trauma. If anything, he was now one of them. He hadn’t thought about this before, but as his heart thumped loudly in his ears and he felt the H that Henry Bowers had carved into his stomach not so long ago burn, it seemed like such a good idea. Suicide.

He sat up from his bed at that. Why hadn’t he thought about it before? Well, actually, that was a stupid question. Because he hadn’t nearly died in a sewer fighting a demon who liked to appear as a clown or children’s biggest fears. But now he had. And now he had to live with that until he died, which could be _right now_ if he wanted. Now he cried himself to sleep every night, crying just like he was right now.

He looked at the penknife he kept on his bookshelf for when he received packages with a new book. All it would take was a few stabs, finishing what Henry Bowers started before he murdered his best friends and father; before he was sent off to the mental institution. He picked up the penknife. Now or never, he guessed.

From his experience, he knew the pain he would be in if he carried through with the act.

Pain.

It wouldn’t just be physical pain. Emotional, too. What would his friends think about him? What would they _feel_ without him? He couldn’t do this to them. They needed him. He couldn’t just kill himself, not after everything they’ve been through together. He had to keep going.

He put down the penknife, gasping for breath through his tears, and stood up, deciding he shouldn’t be alone if he’s thinking these things. He needed help. He _deserved_ help. He deserved a future. He deserved not just a future, but a happy one. The one he wanted with Beverly Marsh, the girl he developed a crush on over the summer, the girl who was his best friend.

He left his room and stumbled downstairs, he was going to ask his parents to get him some help, tell them his thoughts but the most important part; he was going to go and see his friends, open up to them, and tell them he loves them.

** _After all, he wasn’t done living yet._ **


	2. mike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not every chapter is set at the same time. kudos and/or comments appreciated :)

His mind wouldn’t stop. He was trying to help out on the farm, it was his first time out there after everything with It happened. Normally he wouldn’t be allowed take time off, but after he went missing for an entire day and reappeared covered in mud, blood and god knows what else, scrapes all over his body; his grandfather took pity. He knew something had happened to him, but he didn’t press it – something that Mike Hanlon was grateful for.

Not that talking would help. For some reason, the adults of Derry, Maine still didn’t seem to care about everything that goes on in there. It still had a tight grip on Maine, even though it was supposed to be dead. They had killed It a month ago. So why was there was still a hatred in the townspeople eyes whenever they saw him cycle in with deliveries?

He hated Derry. He hated the racism he was subject to, the pain, the misery, the _torture_. The fact that every adult around was _so fucking blind_ to what happened, to how the kids were killed, tortured and just outright scared. Scared that it would be a sibling, a friend, scared that it would be _them_ next.

It was a valid fear, though. Mike Hanlon was thirteen years old and afraid for not only his life but his friends. Afraid that It truly wasn’t dead and one day he would wake up to the news that one of the Losers Club had been taken. Every child in Derry feared for their life, but most of them didn’t know what there was to be afraid of.

Mike stared blankly at the sheep in front of him, a gun in his hand. His hand was shaky, just like that day all those months ago, just before he had met his current best friends. He owed them his life, literally. They knew everything about him already.

Well, nearly everything. There were some things Mike liked to keep secret from his friends. Did he like doing it? No. he was just too afraid of what they might say or do if he told them.

If he told them that sometimes all he wanted was to die.

_Bang._

The sheep fell with a heavy thud, small beady eyes lifeless. All the life that was in it just moments before, gone. He envied it. The thought of not having to do exist anymore. Sometimes, he wished he was the sheep. They didn’t have to deal with the bullshit that was life.

He thought about death a lot. Not on purpose or anything, his mind would just wander. Death had been present all his life. He was there when his parents died, he was the only one who survived the blaze that burnt his childhood home down. The fire claimed everything he loved, claimed the possibility of fitting in.

He was surrounded by death. It was everywhere he went. He couldn’t escape it in town, he couldn’t escape it in the farm, he couldn’t escape it in his head. This gun could fix that though. He stared at it, seeing it in a new light compared to before. Before, he only saw it as a part of his work on the farm. Now, however, he was staring straight at the key to peace. With this, he could be happy. No more fear, no more pain, no more misery.

He wasn’t really thinking, but he knew nobody else was near this part of the farm. So, he decided to go for it. It’d benefit everybody if he was gone; the Losers wouldn’t be harassed for associating with him. Whenever he insinuated he was worried about that, they were all quick in reassuring him they didn’t care what was thrown at them; they loved him no matter what. His grandfather wouldn’t be embarrassed with how he sometimes used his morals when it came to work. He had sat Mike down before telling him its okay to hate killing the animals, but without it they wouldn’t have any food to eat, any house to live in, any clothes to wear. He lifted the gun to his forehead, struggling a bit with how much he was shaking. He acknowledged that there were tears streaming down his face, maybe at the fact that he knew how much everybody was better off without him.

Except they weren’t.

And he knew that.

The gun collided with the ground as he let go of it, dropping to his knees. How could he think of doing this? His grandfather had been through enough with all the family deaths; fuelled by the racism that drove the Bowers family hatred for them. His friends had been through enough with the trauma of that summer, of that fucking demon. And here he was, about to cause more suffering for them.

He sank to his knees, knowing he couldn’t say anything to his friends. He remembered how distraught the group had been when Ben had opened up about his suicidal thoughts after Pennywise, but he could tell by the looks on everybody’s faces that they all felt the same. They just chose to keep it unspoken.

Mike stayed like that, curled up on the floor for a few hours until his grandfather found him as the sunset. He didn’t question the tear tracks or the dropped gun, he just put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a quiet ‘well done’ for trying to come back to the farm.

Mike felt better – albeit embarrassed – for his thoughts.

** _After all, he wasn’t done living yet._ **


End file.
